Most potters take themselves very seriously. But surely none more so than me. My pots start with a story: heard somewhere or discovered by chance, something that speaks to me personally and directly. Some time ago I made a coiled pot in the shape of a persimmon, a favourite fruit. I used to eat persimmons in Mozambique, but it was in Brazil that I found out how many varieties and flavours persimmons come in. You can have bright red ones, much like tomatoes, but also gold, orange and even brown. Some have to be eaten when sloppy and almost liquid, or they will make your mouth thick and unpleasant; others, are crunchy like apples or smooth like peaches. Persimmons have a wonderful shape that nestles beautifully in the palm of your hand. The plant is found in a vast subtropical swathe, from Madagascar to China. The fruit of some plants in the genus is the black dense ebony. Anyway, the pot: made of white stoneware, carved with water ripples and a Japanese crane. Cranes are birds to which numerous symbolic meanings attach, especially in Japan and China. They are in danger of extinction because their habitats are being invaded and changed by farming and overpopulation. The crane is the symbol of fidelity, because the birds mate for life. They are the companions of wise men in traditional Chinese portraiture. Shortly after the end of World War II, the folded origami cranes came to symbolize a hope for peace through Sadako Sasaki and her unforgettable story of perseverance. Diagnosed with leukemia after being exposed to radiation after the bombing of Hiroshima, Sadako became determined to reach a goal of folding 1,000 cranes in hopes of being rewarded with health, happiness, and a world of eternal peace. Although she died before reaching her goal, the tradition of sending origami cranes to the Hiroshima memorial has endured as a symbol of the Japan’s ongoing wish for nuclear disarmament and world peace. Today this tradition of folding 1,000 cranes represents a form of healing and hope during challenging times. I find this story compelling. I find the wish for peace, a forlorn hope in our times, a compelling one. I am touched by the idea that there are out there many people who feel this way. And I made a pot to celebrate that. This pot was made in 2010, but it lacked colour and depth, and so it languished on my wait-and-see shelf for a long time until recently I found a glaze that would do what I wanted to that pot. The pot was taken to a show and it was sold to a visitor who purported to 'love it'. Well and good, I am pleased 'Tsuru at the waterfall' has gone to a good home. But I fear the story here takes a dark turn. A fellow potter became very uncomfortable with my approach. Most other potters just show their pieces and let people like or not like them. And that is fine. For them. For me, the story is the reason why the pot is made. I will not sell a pot or show a pot unless I am able to clarify the story it carries. As the new owner of the pot you can discard that: no problem there. But until it passes from my hands, my pot will tell its tale. I felt amused by the woman's problem. I have no idea what her feelings really are, though clearly she has some, strong enough to lead her to be quite rude and dismissive towards me. I do not recognise this person's right to shut me up. And yes, I am a bit indignant that she should have an opinion as to whether I have or have not the right of free speech. So, this is a warning to the world: I am about to embark on a series of pieces, i.e. books, pots, wall pieces, boxes, all celebrating tsuru. And each and everyone of them will have a written statement to the effect that this is what they are: Votive World Peace artefacts. I do take all this seriously, if I didn't, I wouldn't bother. I am not in the business of selling custard tarts.
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